Operation Trinity

by Clifford, Riley

  Contents

  Are You Ready to Save the World?

  Cathedral

  Title Page

  Letter

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  The Cahill Files

  Acknowledgment

  Copyright

  Ghent, 1566

  Matheus Jacobs scraped his spoon along the side of the wooden bowl, filling it with flakes of dried stew. Once he finished his supper, his visit home would be over and he’d have to start his long ride back to the cathedral.

  He turned to the window. The sun was already beginning to set, flooding the wheat field with soft orange light. His father and his oldest brother, Adriaan, were out there somewhere, trying to coax the plants from the barren ground.

  Since Adriaan would inherit the family land, the younger boys had to learn a trade. Lukas was already apprenticed to the local blacksmith, and Matheus had assumed that he’d also be sent to work when he turned thirteen next year. But instead of finding him a job with the village baker or carpenter, his mother had arranged for him to serve as an altar boy at Saint Bavo Cathedral in Ghent — a morning’s ride on a proper horse, a half day on their poky mule, Mungo.

  “Are you almost ready, beertje?” his mother, Anna, called from the back of the room, where she was tucking baby Greet into her cradle.

  Matheus scrunched his face, although he secretly liked it when his mother called him “little bear,” a reference to the dark, curly hair that distinguished him from his blond brothers.

  “You need to hurry if you want to get to the city before dark,” Anna said. Matheus looked down to keep his mother from seeing the blush spreading across his cheeks. His hair wasn’t all that set him apart. He was the only one of his brothers who was afraid of the dark — who was afraid of anything, really.

  That was probably why he’d been sent to the cathedral instead of being apprenticed. He was an embarrassment. Matheus’s father, Joost, had no patience for his spindly, clumsy son, who could barely haul a full bucket of water without drenching his tunic. He’d seen the shame in his father’s face when Matheus limped home after losing a fight.

  Before Matheus could reply, there was a knock at the front entrance. That was odd. The family and their neighbors always came through the kitchen. “Go see who it is, beertje,” Anna called. Matheus lifted the latch and pulled open the heavy door, revealing a tall, slender man in a strange outfit. Instead of a tunic and trousers, he wore a brocade jacket over knee breeches and white silk stockings. At first, Matheus wondered how the man had managed to stay so clean, but then he heard the stomp of a hoof. An elegant carriage pulled by four matching dappled grays had stopped in the middle of the road.

  “Is this the Jacobs home?” the man asked. He had a strange accent, and he grimaced slightly as he spoke, as if the foreign words left a sour taste in his mouth.

  Matheus nodded.

  The man removed a letter from the pouch hanging at his hip. “Are you quite sure?” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s treason to tamper with a message from the king.”

  The king? Then perhaps the messenger was looking for another Jacobs family. Surely King Philip wouldn’t have business with his parents.

  “Who is it?” Anna’s voice called from behind him. Matheus stepped aside to let his mother pass. “Can I help you?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “I have a letter for Mevrouw Jacobs,” the messenger said with a note of irritation in his voice.

  “I am Mevrouw Jacobs.”

  “Mevrouw Anna Jacobs?” he asked, giving her an appraising look. “I have come a long way, and I do not intend to leave His Majesty’s correspondence with some peasant.”

  Matheus saw his mother stiffen next to him. She raised her chin. “¿Está de España?” she said in a language he’d never heard before.

  The messenger’s cheeks flushed slightly. “I do not speak Spanish, madam.”

  “You’re not from the king’s court in Madrid.”

  “I took over for His Majesty’s courier in France.”

  “Donc, je suis Anna Jacobs. Donnez-moi le lettre, s’il vous plaît.”

  Both the messenger and Matheus stared at her wide-eyed. The only people he’d heard speak anything but Dutch were the priests, who chanted in Latin, and the traders at the market. Yet here was his mother conversing in foreign tongues like a queen.

  The messenger handed Anna the letter, bowed his head, and then strode back to his carriage. Matheus turned to his mother slowly, half expecting to find that she’d turned into someone else completely. But there she was. The same large brown eyes and rosy cheeks. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Not here,” she whispered, glancing down the road before guiding Matheus inside and closing the door. She held up the letter and examined the elaborate wax seal. Instead of the royal coat of arms he’d seen emblazoned on proclamations and flags, there was a large C. His mother had taught him to read and write, but he couldn’t think what the initial could stand for.

  Anna carefully broke the seal and unfolded the letter, pressing her lips together as her eyes traveled across the paper. Her face was tight, as if the muscles were straining to keep some private thought from spilling onto her face.

  “Mother, why is the king sending you letters?” Matheus asked. “And how do you speak all those languages?” A prickle of dread formed in his stomach. “Are we in trouble?” he asked as terrifying images began to spill out from the dark places in his memory. Over the past year, news of unrest in other parts of the land had reached their village. Protestant dissenters were speaking out against the Catholic Church and Spanish rule. There were rumors that the king’s army had begun arresting people during rallies, or taking them away in the middle of the night.

  Yet his family was Catholic, and he’d never heard either of his parents speak ill of the Crown.

  Anna closed her eyes for a moment and then took a breath. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  The back door slammed, and Matheus jumped. His father, Joost, stormed into the room, leaving a trail of dirty boot prints in his wake. “What’s going on?” he boomed. “I saw a carriage leaving.”

  “It was a message from the king.” Anna held up the letter. “He thinks it’s in danger.”

  “What’s in danger?” Matheus asked. His heart sped up, sending a mixture of fear and frustration coursing through his body.

  “Watch your tone,” his father snapped.

  “It’s fine, Joost,” Anna said, clasping his arm. “It’s time to tell him.” She took a step forward toward her son. “There’s a special reason we sent you to be an altar boy, Matheus.” She shot a quick glance toward the window. “It’s about the altarpiece.”

  Matheus had been waiting for his mother to say something that would shine a light on the fog that had settled over him since the messenger arrived, but her words only served to thicken the haze of confusion. Saint Bavo Cathedral was home to a magnificent altarpiece — a series of twenty-four paintings by the renowned Jan van Eyck. The work was heralded as a masterpiece — one of the world’s great treasures. Artists traveled great distances to study Van Eyck’s technique. What could the altarpiece possibly have to do with Matheus’s mother?

  “My grandmother came from England specifically to protect the altarpiece. And ever since then, one of her descendants has watched over it.”

  “Protect it from whom?” Matheus asked.

  “There’s a dangerous group called the Vespers that’s been trying to steal the altarpiece for decades. And it’s up to our family — the Cahills — to keep it safe.”

  It was as if she were still speaking one of those foreign languages for all the sense her words made to Matheus. “Why us? Wouldn’t the Ch
urch protect it?”

  Anna shook her head. “They know nothing about the threat. The Vespers are masters at operating from the shadows.” She held up the letter. “The king’s Cahill advisers believe that the Vespers are behind the current rebellion, and are going to use it to seize the paintings. That’s why we need someone in the cathedral at all times.” She gave him a small smile and ruffled his hair. “Like an altar boy.”

  Matheus took a step back. “But what am I supposed to do to protect it?” He’d never won so much as a wrestling match. How was he supposed to fend off a mysterious enemy?

  Joost sighed and placed his hand on Anna’s shoulder, turning her away slightly. “I told you he was the wrong choice,” he murmured. “Send Lukas. He’s still young enough to be an altar boy.”

  His words burned Matheus’s ears, and then spread to his chest like a growing flame. He knew his father was disappointed with him, but hearing proof was worse than he could have imagined, like waking up after a terrifying dream only to find the creature from your nightmare standing next to your bed.

  “He’s the one,” his mother said firmly, returning to face Matheus. “The Vespers aren’t an invading army you can crush with superior strength. That’s what makes them so dangerous.”

  “Lukas stands a better chance.”

  “It’s my family’s responsibility, Joost. And we’ve chosen Matheus.”

  Joost stared at her for a moment. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said, placing his cap on his head. “I must be off.” He nodded at Matheus. “Do your best, boy. We’re all counting on you.”

  Anna watched him leave, and then walked over to fetch Matheus’s cloak from the peg by the back door. “Don’t listen to him,” she said as she draped the rough wool over his shoulders. “I know you’ll make me proud, Matheus.” She gave him a final kiss, opened the door, and ushered him out into the fading light.

  “Come on!” Matheus half shouted, half groaned as he thumped his legs against Mungo’s sides. But the mule ignored his rider’s exasperated kicks and continued munching on the patch of clover he’d spotted off the road. It was the fourth snack break the beast had initiated in less than a mile. It wouldn’t even matter how Matheus was supposed to guard the altarpiece, if he never even made it back to Ghent.

  The wind had picked up, and the skin on his neck and face began to sting. He reached down and stroked the coarse hair on the mule’s neck. “Please? If you get me back before dark, I’ll give you a carrot.” Mungo twitched his long ears, but kept chewing. “And a big, juicy apple.” The mule raised his head and snorted, spraying wet flecks of clover onto the toe of Matheus’s left boot.

  Matheus sat perfectly still as the animal’s muscles twitched experimentally. It was crucial that Mungo feel it was his decision to continue. With a resigned whinny, the mule lumbered back onto the path.

  Matheus sighed as he loosened the reins. Mungo was going to choose his own pace, anyway. As they turned down the road through the village, the mule broke into a surprisingly animated trot. His belly jiggled with each step, making it difficult for Matheus to keep his balance.

  They rounded the bend, and Matheus’s stomach flipped. A group of boys about his age was standing in a circle, hooting and hollering as they watched a wrestling match. Matheus slouched deeper in the saddle and tugged the hood of his cloak around his face. But it was no use. They’d seen him.

  Normally, the Protestant and Catholic children in the village got along, or at least left each other alone. But over the past few months, fights had been breaking out. Most of his neighbors knew Matheus was an altar boy, which made him a target.

  “Look, it’s the choirboy!” a gangly lad shouted to his friends.

  Matheus’s neighbor, Pietor, took a step forward. “Where’s your harp, angel?”

  Matheus gave Mungo a firm squeeze with his calves, but the mule chose that moment to go investigate some apples rotting in the gutter. Matheus yanked on the reins with all his might, yet he couldn’t stop the mule from rushing headlong toward the fruit. He skidded to a stop on the slippery road, and Matheus tumbled off into a puddle of mud and decaying apples.

  The boys roared with laughter. “Still think you’re something special, altar boy?” the tall boy called.

  Matheus ignored them as he tried to remount, but his boots were covered with mud and his foot kept sliding out of the stirrup. After a few failed attempts, he grabbed the grimy reins and hauled Mungo away from the apples. He climbed onto a wooden crate and then swung his leg over the saddle. Matheus dug his heels into the mule’s bloated sides and urged him to walk forward.

  The boys’ laughter echoed through the village square, but Matheus could barely hear them. All he could focus on was the man standing in front of the tavern, staring at him with a look of bitter disappointment.

  Matheus tucked his chin into his tunic and stared at the ground as he rode by. He’d pretend he hadn’t seen his father. And his father could pretend he only had two sons.

  Matheus couldn’t sleep. It was hard to trade the sleepy warmth of his snug house for the chill of the drafty dormitory. The wind always kept him awake like a restless bedfellow, tossing and turning in the night.

  But the strange noises were the least of Matheus’s worries. His mother’s words echoed through his brain, drowning all other sounds. Matheus was in charge of protecting the altarpiece. But what did that mean? Was he supposed to pace back and forth in front of it all night, waving a club in the air? Matheus didn’t think the sexton would be too pleased with that option. And what would he do if someone did try to steal it? He couldn’t bear to recall the look he’d seen on his father’s face, and tried to shove the memory into the darkest corner of his mind. But he could still feel its sharp edge piercing through his thoughts.

  The loud, even breathing of his fellow altar boys filled him with envy. They didn’t have mothers who gave them bizarre, impossible tasks. They didn’t have fathers who expected them to fail.

  Matheus looked up at the narrow window across from his cot. A full moon wobbled in the corner, distorted by the thick glass. It was past midnight, which meant that the sanctuary would be empty.

  It was time to check on the altarpiece.

  Matheus rose and padded quietly toward the door, wincing as the cold from the floor seeped into his bare feet and crept up his legs. The long hallway was dark, but the moon provided just enough light for Matheus to find his way down to the first floor. He scurried across the courtyard and snuck in through the chapter house, where the bishop met with important visitors, and then darted past the cloisters into the front hall.

  Matheus paused as he reached the entrance to the sanctuary. It was strange being there alone — normally, the cathedral was full of worshippers, priests, nuns, and altar boys. He took a step forward into the vast nave, the heart of the church. It looked even larger in the dark. The long center aisle seemed to stretch out interminably, and the pulpit at the end was hardly visible in the dim light.

  Yet although Matheus generally hated the dark, there was something reassuring about the cathedral at night. During the day, the sun shone through the stained glass windows, filling the life-sized saints with a holy glow that made Matheus bow his head in reverence. But at night, the moonlight filtering through the panes made the figures look almost human.

  As he walked down the aisle, passing the empty pews and dark alcoves that housed smaller altars and stone crypts, even the shadows were more comforting than menacing. The same shapes unfurled across the black-and-white floor every night like nocturnal flowers that lived for centuries. Time seemed to stand still in the cathedral. There was no changing of seasons. No cycles of birth and death. The air was always heavy with the smell of incense, the echo of music, and the memory of muttered prayers.

  When he finally reached the pulpit, Matheus knelt and crossed himself before rising and turning to face the altarpiece. Even in the dim light, it took his breath away. The hinged panels were open, so the inner panels were visible — t
welve paintings of different sizes that had been connected to form a screen. All together, the entire piece was larger than the front of his house.

  Matheus’s eyes first traveled to the middle panel, where the figure of God was looking down from his golden throne. A shiver ran down his spine and he tilted his head to look at the large scene on the bottom panel, the most celebrated painting in the altarpiece — “The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb.” Van Eyck had portrayed the moment before the sacrifice. The lamb stood proudly on a pedestal in a green field, surrounded by angels. Groups of worshippers watched from a respectful distance. A sun shone down on the assembled crowd, and standing in the drafty, dark cathedral, Matheus could imagine the warmth on his skin.

  Van Eyck had spent six years on the twenty-four individual paintings, and the detail was spectacular. Each of the hundreds of figures had a unique face and a distinct expression. The saints’ robes fell in lustrous folds onto the grass. Strange, exotic foliage bloomed in the background. Matheus could only imagine how far someone would have to travel in order to see plants like that. Although there was no proof that Van Eyck had left the Netherlands, there were rumors that his patron, the Duke of Burgundy, had sent the artist to faraway lands on court business. Could those journeys have anything to do with the Vespers?

  Matheus squinted to examine something he had only found the other day. One of the figures in the bottom left panel had strange symbols embroidered onto his cap. They looked like letters, but they weren’t in a language Matheus had ever seen.

  A loud thump shook the silence of the sanctuary. Matheus felt his heart flutter as he spun around. Could an attack be happening already? He spread his arms to the side, like a goose shielding a flock of goslings. Except that his spindly limbs would hardly stop a fly from landing on the altarpiece.

  There was another thump, followed by the sound of metal hitting stone.

  There was someone in the sanctuary.

  “Who’s there?” Matheus croaked, cringing at how faint and wobbly his voice sounded in the vast cathedral. There wasn’t even an echo. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Reveal yourself!”